


You're An Idiot

by Adventures_in_Writing



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 10:04:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6513730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adventures_in_Writing/pseuds/Adventures_in_Writing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wash definitely remembers hitting the ground though; the training room spinning for a few moments before he was suddenly no longer standing up. He can’t remember who it was that called out to him, or who it was that picked him up to cart him across the camp to the medical bay. Wash supposes it was one of the group that he was training.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're An Idiot

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt received on [ my Tumblr](http://an-adventure-in-writing.tumblr.com/): Wash gets sick (stomach flu, cold, your choice), yet he decides to hide it from everyone until he finally passes out while training. He wakes up in the infirmary with an annoyed Tucker who proclaims, 'You're an idiot.' Cute fluff follows the moment.

* * *

 

Wash thinks he remembers waking up that morning, his eyes heavy with tiredness, his muscles weak and his head pounding. He thinks he was feeling warmer than usual, so much so that it felt like he was floating on air when he walked from his bed to where he kept his armour and that it took twice as long as usual to haul the heavy armour on to his body.

The morning was a blur: he knows that he barely touched anything for breakfast, instead slowly sipping on the orange juice that Caboose had brought to the table for him. He sort-of remembers seeing Tucker’s concerned expression as he stood from the table, though Wash has no idea what it was that Tucker had been saying.

He definitely remembers hitting the ground though; the training room spinning for a few moments before he was suddenly no longer standing up. He can’t remember who it was that called out to him, or who it was that picked him up to cart him across the camp to the medical bay. Wash supposes it was one of the group that he was training. Maybe it was Lieutenant Andersmith?

Wash isn’t sure if he had heard the disapproving tut-tut that Doctor Grey would have made when he was finally carried into her office, but he can easily imagine it. He is, however, certain that once Andersmith and Doctor Grey had managed to help him out of his armour and into a spare hospital bed, he had fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He lays there in the hospital bed, his eyes closed as he tries to will himself to go back to sleep. His head still feels foggy, his arms and legs still weak and tired. Although he would usually brush it off, now that he is in Doctor Grey’s domain, he knows better than to try and march out of the infirmary without her approval. A noise from beside him catches his attention; soft footfalls against the hard ground. Whomever it is stops at the side of the bed and seems to hesitate a moment before placing a soft hand atop his brow.

Unable to remain blank-faced, a half-smile pulls at Wash’s lips.

“That’s not very scientific.”

“You’re an idiot.”

The familiar voice makes his smile widen, the soft cadence surprising him. The sentence doesn’t have the same bite to it; masked behind the casual insult is great concern. There isn’t much that can take Agent Washington down, except perhaps for a bullet, but even then it’s not guaranteed. Wash finally cracks open his eyes, squinting against the sunlight that filters into the room. He turns his head, looking up at Tucker.

“You’re not wearing armour?” Wash asks in confusion. There must be some good reason for it, but Wash’s fever-addled brain can’t make heads nor tails of it right now and he waits for an explanation.

Tucker chuckles softly at the confused expression on Wash’s face and once more reaches out a hand to his forehead.  
“Wow, that fever must have scrambled your brains. I’m taking the rest of today off to look after you. Doctor’s orders.”

“But I’m fine,” Wash protested.

“Your temperature is a few degrees too high, your face is paler than usual and those dark circles under your eyes make it look like you’ve been in a bar fight. You’re _not_ fine, and I’m going to look after you until you are.”

Wash closes his eyes, debating with himself. He knows Tucker is right. He knows he’s sick and needs to take time off to heal; trying to work through it will just make things worse.

“Thanks, Tucker.”

With his eyes closed, Wash doesn’t see it coming, but before he realises it, Tucker’s soft lips press against his forehead for a moment before Tucker takes a seat beside the bed.

The sudden wave of warmth that washes over him isn’t because of the fever.


End file.
